


Wonder

by gxlden



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Ciel POV, Ciel is confused and a little frustrated, M/M, POV First Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding, Sebastian playing with his food, Shota, Uncharacteristically tender sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 22:23:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8226650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gxlden/pseuds/gxlden
Summary: Devoted though he is to serving me, I never forget that I cannot trust him, not one bit. He is a conniving creature of hell, lowly and depraved, incapable of feeling human emotions. Or so he says. As of late, I have begun to wonder.





	

My butler is a very capable man - this I cannot deny. He is smart; educated and well-versed in the ways of the world. He is strong, stronger than an entire army. He is extremely debonair, I am not so insecure or blind as to ignore this fact. He is a veritable cornucopia of advantageous and desirable characteristics, a truly awe-inspiring individual, and devoted though he is to serving me, I never forget that I cannot trust him, not one bit. He is a conniving creature of hell, lowly and depraved, incapable of feeling human emotions. Or so he says.  
  
As of late, I have begun to wonder. My servant does not lie to me, but that does not mean he does not expertly conceal his own personal thoughts and utilize misdirection and stealth to negate my inquiries and expeditions into that mysteriously dark and twisted mind of his.  
  
My problem is this: while I spend no measure of time reminiscing about the past, I do remember, if only vaguely. And things from my past that have recently surfaced in my mind have me questioning the motives of my faithful butler. It is a distant memory, but I remember my parents, and my aunt, my exuberant cousin who has remained to this day the joyous and carefree girl she is. I remember the hands of my predecessor ruffling my hair and patting my back, his fleeting face returning the foolish and eager smile I so often sported. I remember the warm embrace of my mother, clutching me as my embarrassingly weak frame wheezed and shook with the force of an asthma attack. I remember my aunt’s palm pressed to my forehead to feel for a fever, watching as her eyes crinkled at the corner with worry, more than a doctor tending to a mere patient would allow. In my younger days, everything was tender and soft. Though the feeling is now foreign, I do remember what it is like to be unconditionally and explicitly loved.  
  
Typically, one would not think a demon capable of such feelings - he lacks the capacity to think on or care for another as he cares for himself. I have always expected this, and I am aware that his devotion to me is simply another means of self-preservation, merely ensuring the quality of his meal. He can be so gentle with me, as if he must take special care not to damage his precious cargo, while at other times he is mean, harsh and unforgiving, coarse and rude, and a litany of other things. But he knows that I can handle him - all of him. He is aware that I am a force to be reckoned with, he has said so himself, and he knows that I am used to getting what I want.  
  
When we embrace at night, he is tender, uncharacteristically so. It’s unnerving. He is not teasing me, this I know, for the infuriating smirk I am so accustomed to seeing is nowhere to be found. Yet he remains unnecessarily cautious, arduously slow in his preparation. His hands explore every inch of my body, caressing each curve and dip of my skin with those black-nailed fingertips as if I were a bone china cup, destined to shatter in his grasp. When he kisses me, I am surprised at the lack of fervor he shows - the hungry urgency with which he used to attack my lips is gone. It is as if he is really tasting me, reveling in the flavor he will one day get to fully experience and savor.  
  
Candlelight flickers on the gleaming white enamel of his lengthened canines, yet he keeps them in his mouth, and does not use them to graze my skin and draw blood to the surface, a favorite treat of his. It is strange to be met with heavy silence, instead of the usual quips and taunts about how slatternly I am behaving, how greedy and unbecoming I am, how amazing it is that my small beautiful body can take up so much of his. Infuriating as such comments may be, he believes that it is what I desire to hear, if the embarrassing amount of pearlescent fluid leaking from my cock is any indication to him. In the hushed darkness, he only praises me, and not even with his words. Each touch of his lips on my bare skin is reverent. The tickle of his fingertips over my lips, my eyelids, my ribs, is almost unbearable - it’s too soft, too unnatural for my demon. It is as if he is worshiping an idol. He does not even pull or pinch on my nipples to make me whine as he usually does, delighting in the embarrassing noises I can’t help but make. He whispers, “young master…” and I can barely understand him, his voice is so low.  
  
My servant is a very capable man, but one thing he is not is reserved, at least when it comes to this. When he enters me, it’s deliberate and slow, so slow I may go mad. He does not thrust into me with the force of a thousand suns, as is his normal habit. He shifts and grinds, clutching me to him as though I may fly away. I cannot help but be surprised that his own eyes are closed and his head is buried in the crook of my shoulder and neck. He loves to watch me, but now, it seems as though he is content just to feel me.  
  
I am scouring his back with my nails, pulling on his hair with wild abandon as he drives me mad with pleasure, having found the spot within me that sends white-hot chills through my extremities and continually brushing against it in slow, maddening strokes. It is incommensurable, unlike anything I was familiar with before meeting this devil. I will not beg, not out loud, aside from calling the name that he loves to hear, the name I christened him with in the ethereal glow of early morning light as it chased away the darkness. I realized not long ago that he managed to chase away my darkness, if only so he could be the sole source of it, following me throughout my precarious life like a shadow.  
  
“Sebastian…”  
  
In my most appeasing voice, I call to him, expecting a reply. I receive none, save for a low rumble that resounds in both of our chests, a moan the likes of which I have never heard from this creature. It sounds desperate, as if he needs more, and this time _he_ is the one reluctant to give in to it.  
  
I say his name again, and again and again, and he opens his mouth and breathes heavily against my sweaty skin. I wait for the sharp sting of his fangs in my flesh, but it does not come, only feather light kisses against my neck, the shell of my ear, the side of my head, anything within his range. He has not been this way since our first time, and when I ask what has gotten into him, he merely looks at me with the subdued hellfire in his eyes and shrugs.  
  
That god damned demon.  
  
Of course I do not love him, and I do not expect him to love me, nor do I want him to. I’m not sure either of us is capable of it, anyway. He is simply a tool, a pawn at my disposal, a means for me to reach my end. And I? Surely I am no more than food to him. I am the sustenance he needs to survive, to live, if one could even call it that. Delicious though I may be, I am simply a meal for him, and how many of those has he had? I have no doubt that he has taken great care to prepare my soul to his liking, though I loathe to think about how easily this may have been for him, despite my best efforts. Try as I might to hide it from him, he always knows what I want and what I need, as if he is peering into my head and perusing its interior like it is a dissertation written solely for him. How I despise him. I feel as if he reads me so easily, like some cheap penny dreadful, and I, for the life of me, cannot even begin to open and translate and comprehend the ancient and foreign tome that is this man, this beautiful devil that has devoted himself to me, if only for the brief, fleeting moment that my lifespan is to him.  
  
I’ve mustered up enough strength (mostly fueled by irritation at his unusual demeanor) to call out to him again, “Sebastian,” this time forceful enough that he withdraws from where he has been hiding his face in my neck to look at me. And when I lock eyes with him I nearly lose all the composure I had managed to drum up in order to confront him. His irises have taken on that familiar vibrant shade, like pale rubies glistening in the sun, and his pupils have lost their rounded shape and he gazes at me with feral slits in his eyes. When he looks at me with those eyes, I find I can’t control myself. My mouth opens in a drawn out moan as I revel in the feeling of my demon inside me. I see the corner of his mouth twitch upwards and I am glad he has not totally changed. Tossing my head back, I bury my hands in his silky locks of hair and cry out again, this time replacing the unintelligent sounds of pleasure with his name, trying to break him out of whatever strange, subdued state he has found himself in.  
  
“Sebastian.” I don’t particularly want to do this, but, “Please.”  
  
“Young master…” His voice has returned, that spiced silk and honey voice that drips over me and sends shivers down my spine. The familiar tone is back, yet his motions have not changed. He is moving slowly, tenderly, lovingly, and I wish it would stop already.  
  
“Young master, you’re so beautiful.”  
  
That’s enough.  
  
I untangle my fingers from his hair and slap him across the face. Obviously not hard enough to hurt, for nothing I do could ever inflict any damage on this beast, but hopefully it is enough to break him from this trance. He knows I am not one for such sentimental drivel.  
  
“Enough,” I say to him. I command him to stop moving, and once the languid motions of his hips ceases, I move to position myself proudly on his lap, looking down into those gleaming red eyes. A warm sensation spreads through my gut as I stare into that vibrant abyss, and I cling to his shoulders for leverage as I raise and lower myself on his hot and heavy length.  
  
Really, must I do everything myself?  
  
His hands come to rest around my waist, long fingers spreading across the thin expanse of my back. I feel a fingertip dance along my skin just beneath the scarred flesh of my brand and I glare at the demon beneath me, increasing the speed at which I am impaling myself on him.  
  
I can hardly believe I’m doing this as my hand drops from his shoulder to wrap around my own shaft, slippery with agitated pre-ejaculate. Unbelievable. Riding him is not my forte; I find it often too taxing for me, and I feel clumsy as I try to match the motion of my hand to the rhythm of my hips, rising and falling on that beautifully hard member inside me. Still, I persevere, staring seriously into those eyes of fire and brimstone as I experimentally invade myself with his length. His expression never changes as he watches me, impassive as ever as my legs slowly turn to rubber and I feel I can no longer continue until - “Oh!”  
  
_There._ I’ve managed to make myself squeal embarrassingly as I find the angle at which everything else outside the two of us ceases to exist, but he does not react. Normally, he delights in the sounds that I make, but he is silent now, and it is infuriating and I can think of no other way to get back at him. The hand around my erection quickens and smears the slippery excited fluid around as I push myself towards my climax. The sounds spilling forth from my mouth cannot be stopped as I tip the scales and spend in my own hand. The feeling is so strong, the pleasure overwhelming, and as the shattered syllables of my demon’s name fall from my lips, I too begin to fall, tumbling headfirst into a deep dark pleasure only he can bring me.  
  
My legs give out and I topple backwards from his lap, nearly crying and delirious from all the sensations I have brought upon myself. I expect to meet the mattress beneath me ungracefully, legs and arms akimbo as my body trembles from the force of my orgasm. Instead, a pair of strong hands catches me, fingernails biting at my flesh. Eyes closed, jaw slack, an embarrassing trail of saliva running down my chin, I go limp in those familiar hands. Exhaustion has overcome me, and I almost forget what inspired such a feat of athleticism before I hear a rich, velvety chuckle at my ear. Opening an eye, I see him through my lashes, staring at me with those glowing eyes. The look on his face is rather divine, and I can feel my cock stir again at the sight of him.  
  
Another laugh, dark and heavy. A breathy sigh, “Ahh…” and then, “How lucky am I to have such a precocious little tyrant as my master.”  
  
I open my mouth to speak and he descends upon me. I nearly cry out in joy when he nips at my lips, running his tongue along the lower one before invading my mouth with that warm dexterous muscle. The fervor is back, and I welcome it with open arms. He pulls me from his lap to lay me on my back, pushing my thighs towards my chest and branding my legs with tiny crescents as his pitch black nails have grown long and unruly.  
  
“You never fail to surprise me, my flinty little lord.” His hips begin to move, shallow and quick and teasing, and he pulls my hand, coated in pearly white fluid, up to his mouth and laps at my palm. He drags his tongue through the spaces between my fingers, and it tickles, and I feel myself grow stiff once again. My hand is sticky, but he presses it to the side of his face and looks down at me, smirking. I curl my fingers around his jaw, turning his head this way and that, as if I am examining him, which I suppose I am. There is no sign of where he went off to, where his mind was while he touched me like I was made of glass. All I know is that he is back, and he is mine.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't rightly know what compelled me to write a Ciel POV, but here we are.


End file.
